THE YELLOW DOVE
had taken care yesterday morning, as was his custom, to go over the engine with his own hands. The impairment of the engine was of no serious consequence, and intended only to delay. Von Stromberg had not counted on such a chance for readjustment as this, or upon Hammersley’s reserve supply of necessary material. And unless they had done something else that he could not discover—but what? While he worked Hammersley tried to think, casting between times anxious glances at the gears, the propellers and the control wires. The reserve tank of petrol was filled and the hose was steadily pouring the stuff into the one under the forward cockpit, which was full by the time the plugs and wires were all adjusted.
“That will be enough, Doris,” he whispered. “We only need to get to the English lines. There’s no time for more.”
She saw him try the wheel, watching the connecting gear keenly, and, when he ordered it, she climbed down into the rear seat. He gave her a leather coat, gloves and helmet, and buckled her into her seat. Then, in a state of nervous tension, they waited. She saw Cyril climb down, coolly wiping his hands with a piece of waste, restore the hose to its place, and then peer out from a slit in the canvas door. Then he bent over, and running quickly along the flap from side to side, one after another quickly unfastened the toggles which held it in place.
“We’ve got to chance it now,” he whispered up to her. “If she doesn’t work—God help us”
“But the canvas”
“The machine will”
He stopped abruptly, for Doris’s eyes were staring in panic at something behind him. Hammersley whirled
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